H. A. Cody – The Major Collection

Chapter 7

"It looks very much like it," and Reynolds laughed.

"Wall, that's jist the way with many other things. It's allus the unexpected that happens, an' thar are surprises on every trail, as ye'll larn if ye haven't done so already. Meetin' me here is one of 'em, an' my movements are jist as unsartin an' mysterious as were them of that bird which is now sizzlin' over this fire."

"But with not such an unhappy ending, I hope," and again Reynolds smiled.

The prospector's eyes twinkled as he drew the bird from the fire, and laid it carefully in the frying-pan.

"Guess it's done all right this time," he remarked. "Now fer supper. I'm most starved."

Reynolds was hungry, and he did full justice to the meal. Samson had some excellent sour-dough bread of which he was very proud.

"Made it last night," he explained, "an' it turned out better'n usual. Thought mebbe I'd have company before long."

"Did you meet the others?" Reynolds asked.

"Oh, yes, I met 'em," Samson chuckled.

"Were they far ahead?"

"Y' bet, an' chatterin' like a bunch of monkeys. Guess they're thar by now."

"Were they surprised to see you?"

"H'm, they didn't see me. I was settin' under a tree well out of sight. I didn't want to meet that crowd; they're not to my likin'. I jist wished to see if Curly was along."

"You seem to be keepin' a sharp eye on that fellow still," Reynolds remarked. He was anxious to draw the prospector out. Perhaps he might learn something about Curly's acquaintance with Glen.

"Yes, I do keep me eyes peeled fer Curly," Samson drawled, as he finished his supper and pulled out his pipe. "It's necessary, let me tell ye that. He ain't safe nohow."

"You have known him for some time, then?"

"Long enough to be suspicious of the skunk."

"He seems to be very friendly with you, though."

"Oh, he's got sense enough not to buck up aginst me. An' besides, I've yanked him out of many a nasty fix. Most likely he'd been planted long before this if I hadn't been around at the right moment."

"He's up here for more than gold, so I understand."

"How did ye larn that, young man?" There was a sharp note in Samson's voice.

"Oh, I merely overheard your conversation with him in the smoking-room of the Northern Light . That was all, but I drew my own conclusion."

"An' what was that?"

"Nothing very definite. I simply inferred that he is after a girl somewhere here in the north, and that she is so guarded by a lion of a father that Curly hasn't much of a chance."

"An' so that's what ye surmised, is it?" the prospector queried.

"Am I right?"

"Guess yer not fer astray."

"Have you seen the girl? Do you know her father?"

"Have I seen the girl? Do I know her father?" the old man slowly repeated. "Yes, I believe I've seen her, all right. But as fer knowin' her father, wall, that's a different thing. Frontier Samson doesn't pretend to know Jim Weston; he never did."

"Weston, did you say?" Reynolds eagerly asked.

"That's what I said, young man. The name seems to interest ye."

"It does. When I registered at the hotel in Whitehorse, the name just before mine was 'Glen Weston,' and the girl who wrote it came north on the Northern Light . Do you suppose she is Jim Weston's daughter?"

"She might be," was the somewhat slow reply. "As I told ye before, it's ginerally the unexpected that happens. Anyway, ye can't tell much by names these days."

"But Curly knows her, for I saw them together at a dance the night I arrived in town."

"Ye did!" The prospector took his pipe from his mouth and stared hard at Reynolds. "Are ye sure?"

"Positive. Why, I was standing at the door watching the dance, when I saw the two together upon the floor. Later they came over and sat down quite close to me. Curly did most of the talking, and the girl seemed quite uneasy. She left shortly after with a fine-looking Indian, who had evidently come for her. I have not seen her since."

"So Curly was dancin' with her," Samson mused. "Then she must be Jim Weston's gal. I wonder what the old man'll say when he hears about it?"

"How will he know?"

"Oh, he'll find out, all right. There's nuthin' that misses him here in the north."

"What will he do to Curly?"

"I wouldn't like to say at present. That remains to be seen."

"Is this Jim Weston a desperate character?"

"The ones who have tried to fool with him say he is, an' I guess they ought to know. He's a holy terror when he gits goin', 'specially when anyone's after that lass of his."

"The men up here all know about her, I suppose?"

"Should say so. They're about crazy over her. She's been the cause of many a row, an' several shootin' rackets."

"Does she favor anyone?"

"Not as fer as I know. She's in a class all by her lonesome, an' well able to take care of herself. She's not anxious fer lovers, so I understand, at least, not the brand ye find up here. She's some lass, all right, an' whoever succeeds in winnin' her'll be a mighty lucky chap."

"What does her father do? Is he a miner?"

"It's jist hard to tell what Jim Weston does an' what he doesn't do. No one seems to know fer sartin. He lives like a lord on Big Lake, way over yonder," and Samson motioned to the east. "All the folks know that he lives thar with his lass, guarded by a hull pack of Injuns. But what he does an' what he doesn't do is a mighty problem."

"His daughter travels, though, and alone at that, doesn't she?" Reynolds queried.

"Occasionally. Jim's givin' her an eddication, so I hear. She must be comin' back now, as this is vacation time."

"But what happened to her, do you suppose, after the dance that night?" Reynolds asked. "She disappeared as if by magic, and I believe the big Indian had something to do with it."

"How d'ye know she disappeared?" was the sudden and somewhat embarrassing question.

Reynolds laughed, and his face flushed. He knew that he had betrayed himself, and that the prospector noted his confusion.

"Oh, I didn't notice her in town," he explained, "and I saw by the register that she had left the hotel."

"So you're interested in her, too, are ye, young man?"

"I certainly am," was the candid confession. "From the moment that I first saw her at a street crossing in Vancouver she has been hardly out of my mind. I never saw any girl who affected me so much, and she is the reason why I am here now."

"Ye don't tell!" Samson tapped the ashes out of his pipe, and then stretched himself full length upon the ground. "Make a clean breast of it, young man," he encouraged. "I'm an old hardened chap meself, but I do like to hear a real interestin' heart-story once in a while. I git sick an' disgusted listenin' to brutes on two legs, callin' themselves men when they talk about women. But when it comes to a clean young feller, sich as I take you to be, tellin' of his heart-stroke, then it's different, an' I'm allus pleased to listen."

And make a clean breast of it Reynolds did. He was surprised at himself for talking so freely as he told about his indifference to life until he first saw Glen Weston. It was easy to talk there in the silence of the great forest, with the shadows of evening closing around and such a sympathetic listener nearby. He felt better when his story was ended, for he had shared his heart feeling with one worthy of his confidence, so he believed.

Frontier Samson remained silent for a few minutes after the confession had been concluded.. He looked straight before him off among the trees as if he saw something there. Reynolds wondered what he was thinking about, and whether he considered him a fool for becoming so infatuated over a mere girl.

"I must seem ridiculous to you," he at length remarked. "Would any man in his senses act as I have?"

"Ye might do worse," was the quiet reply. "I am sartinly interested in what ye've jist told me, an' I thank ye fer yer confidence. Me own heart was stirred once, an' the feelin' ain't altogether left me yit. But ye've got a difficult problem ahead of ye, young man. Ye want that lass, so I believe, but between you an' her stands Jim Weston."

"And the girl, why don't you say?"

"Sure, sure; she's to be considered. But a gal kin be won when she takes a fancy to a man of your make-up. The trouble'll be with her dad, an' don't fergit that. But thar, I guess we've talked enough about this fer the present. I'm dead beat an' want some sleep. We must be away early in the mornin', remember."

"What! are you going my way?" Reynolds eagerly asked.

"Sure; if ye'd like to have me along. I'm bound fer Big Draw meself."

It was just what Reynolds desired. He liked the old prospector, and now that he had confided to him his tale of love, he was drawn closer than ever to this wandering veteran of the trails.

CHAPTER VI

A SHOT THAT TOLD

The life at Big Draw mining camp on Scupper Creek did not appeal to Reynolds. He watched the men at work upon their various claims, and noted how meagre was their success. They toiled like slaves, lured on by the hope of a rich strike that never came. The principal place of meeting was the roadhouse, where "Shorty" Bill held sway. He lodged men, served meals, and conducted a bar. He was a good-hearted fellow, rough and uncouth, but well liked by all, and a genial companion. It was, therefore, but natural that at this place many of the men should congregate at night, and at times during the day, for a brief respite from their labors. It was here, too, that news would occasionally drift in from the outside world, which would be discussed by the men as they played cards, the only amusement for which they seemed to care. When the mail arrived, as it did at irregular intervals, all work on the creek was suspended, and the men flocked to the roadhouse to receive their scanty dole of letters and papers. Shorty was the custodian of the mail after its arrival, and he magnified his office. With a quid of tobacco tucked away in his cheek, he would study each address most carefully before calling forth the owner's name in a stentorian voice.

Although mining was not in his line, Reynolds realised that he must do something. As he studied the life of the camp, and watched the men at their work, he thought of his friend, the editor. What an article he might write for The Telegram that would make the editor's eyes dance with joy. And he could do it, too, he felt certain, if he could only get up sufficient energy. He could add a number of sketches drawn from life, which would be of much value. He thought of all this as he wandered aimlessly around, and as he lay at night in his little tent.

Several days thus passed without anything being done. Frontier Samson had again disappeared, and no one had any idea where he had gone. Reynolds soon grew tired with having nothing to do, so he accordingly turned his attention to the hills. Fresh meat was urgently needed for the camp, as the miners would not spare the time to go after it themselves. Wild sheep roamed the mountains, and Reynolds decided that he could make more money by supplying the camp with meat than digging for the uncertain gold. It would also satisfy his desire to get away into the wilds, where he could explore to his heart's content the mysteries of the foothills, the great valleys, and the vast expanses of wild meadows.